


The Claus Affair

by alynwa, girlintheglen, LeetheT, selyndae, ssclassof56



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 11:23:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17243363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alynwa/pseuds/alynwa, https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/pseuds/girlintheglen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT, https://archiveofourown.org/users/selyndae/pseuds/selyndae, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56





	1. The Claus Affair ... How It Begins

Alexander Waverly was a man whose connections to the world's most powerful and influential people seemed unlimited to those who answered to his bidding.  The agents of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement marveled at the Old Man's (an endearment among his most faithful stewards), ability to work long hours and know everything and everyone.  
  
Among his most dedicated were the team of Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin.  
  
Yin and Yang.  
  
The suave American seemed to go through life with a never ending supply of good luck and adoring women.  His ability to slip through the enemy's hands and succeed at nearly every mission without so much as a paper cut made his career in the Command a singular tour de force without equal.  
  
Well, that is until the Russian showed up.  Illya Kuryakin equaled or broke nearly all of Solo's marks at Survival School, the training ground for UNCLE agents entering service in Section II, the enforcement arm of Waverly's ivory tower; his nod to the nobility of Arthur's legendary Round Table.  The acquisition of Kuryakin, the only Soviet agent within the Command, had been a stroke of genius on the part of the foxy head of the Northwest and beyond.  Known for an astute mind and amazing physical feats, the blond seemed to be able to transform himself into any character, a chameleon of sorts. Sometimes he seemed to possess a magical quality, if one believed in such things.  
  
As for the man in charge, no one considered that there was anyone other than Waverly who could lead the international armada of peace keepers and law enforcers.  But on this day in December of 1965, the hoary head of Alexander was filled with images of dismay and chaos. One of his dearest and oldest friends, a fellow seeker of peace and goodwill, was in mortal danger. THRUSH, the nemesis of all good in the world, had managed, in spite of the efforts of his own able network of agents, to kidnap Claus.  
  
Santa Claus.  
  
This Claus was not the image of retail, the usurpers of the role of gift giver.  As with all endeavors to do good in the world, there had been those who saw within the altruistic efforts an opportunity to make millions beneath a guise of false generosity.  The more one bought, the better the gift giver could feel about himself. Fortunes were made in December, and the excitement of the season was fueled by ad men and store windows.  
  
And so it had gone, for decades the true Claus had been misconstrued, misrepresented and, to the man's ire, miscast as a rotund, aging fellow whose incipient laughter made him a cartoon character instead of the real, mystical being he truly was.  
  
Is. Alexander had to believe that Claus was still alive, still able to withstand whatever THRUSH might inflict on him. Their friendship had lasted over time and troubles that only a few beings had endured with a solid grasp of the need to never give in to the greed and larceny of fallen mankind. Good was there, sometimes carefully mined by those who cared to look for it, but intact nonetheless.  Claus and Waverly were two whose idealism had never faded, and their longevity was the result of that delicate balance of believing in the good and seeking those who needed redemption.  
  
Alexander sighed a deeply resonant inhalation of all things hopeful. He would send his best men to rescue his best friend.  Secrets were meant to be kept and protected; Solo and Kuryakin could accomplish both, but first they would need to believe.  
  
"Miss Rogers, please send them in."  
  



	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  
The door hissed closed behind Lisa Rogers as Napoleon and Illya took their seats.  
  
Waverly stood at a projector, focusing a picture on the screen. He cleared his throat, then hesitated, appearing reluctant to begin the briefing.  
  
Finally he spoke. “Gentlemen, do you recognize this man?”  
  
The agents stared at the image. A handsome, leonine head smiled down at them. Napoleon looked at Illya’s furrowed brow. “Ah, no, sir, I don’t think we do.”  
  
Waverly said nothing. The agents looked at each other and back to the image on the screen. Luxuriant silver hair flowed back in waves from the man’s face until it touched his shoulders. It was matched by a full, curling beard.  
  
“Whoever he is, I hope to look as good when I reach his age,” Napoleon offered.  
  
“And what age do you suppose that to be, Mr. Solo?”  
  
“Ah, late 60s?”  
  
“No,” Illya interjected. “Too young. He has the eyes of a man who has seen more than three score years.”  
  
“With that boyish smile, he can’t be more than a sexagenarian.”  
  
Illya rolled his eyes at Napoleon’s choice of words. “He has had time to acquire both knowledge and wisdom. He has witnessed much of mankind’s failures and follies, but it has not made him cynical.”  
  
Napoleon stared at the piercing blue eyes on the screen. “You can get all that from a photograph, huh?”  
  
“Can’t you?”  
  
“I can tell he’d look right at home at the end of the Macy’s Parade.”  
  
Napoleon cocked his head at his partner, waiting for a caustic response. Illya stared at the image pensively. “I had had a similar thought. He put me in mind of _Dyed Moroz.”_ Illya turned to Waverly. “Grandfather Frost, the Russian Spirit of Winter.”  
  
Waverly released a pent up breath. He pulled his pipe, already filled, from his coat pocket and lit it. His hand trembled. The agents exchanged worried looks.  
  
“May we have his name, sir?” Illya asked gently.  
  
Waverly drew deeply on his pipe, wreaths of Isle of Dogs No.22 circling about his head. “He’s had many over the years. Just what he started with, well, I think he himself has even forgotten that.”  
  
“Has Section IV run his aliases through our computers?” Napoleon asked. “We could cross-reference the results with Interpol and—”  
  
“Not aliases,” Mr. Waverly interrupted gruffly. “Names. And there’s no need for all that. I know exactly who he is.”  
  
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t quite understand what it is you want from us.”  
  
Waverly crossed to his chair and lowered himself into it. He closed his eyes for a moment, his face a mask of exhaustion. Then he opened them again and looked at his best men. “For now, Mr. Solo, I want you both to listen with an open mind. Can you do that?”  
  
The agents nodded.  
  
“What I have to tell you goes beyond mere designations of secrecy. Few living souls are privileged to share in this knowledge. Not even my counterparts in Section I know of this.”  
  
Waverly worked the panel as he spoke. His agents recognized the sequence for enabling the room’s highest security measures.  
  
“I met him during the Great War when he was an ambulance driver with the Red Cross. My men told fanciful stories about him. They claimed he could reach any field hospital in an instant, and that, no matter how rutted or muddy the road, the ride felt as if you were gliding over newly fallen snow.”  
  
He paused, his gaze faraway. Napoleon said, “The men in Korea had similar ideas. If Tailwind Thompson was your chopper pilot, it was a good omen. No matter the injury, you were guaranteed to make it.”  
  
Waverly’s eyes refocused on the present. “One day it was my turn to require his conveyance. Shrapnel. Both legs.” He rubbed his thigh reflexively. “To take my mind off the situation, as it were, I decided to time the ride.”  
  
Waverly removed a watch from his inner pocket and placed it on the table.  
  
Illya’s mouth curved. “That accounts for the alarms earlier.”  
  
“Yes, I gave Mr. Dennell’s scanner systems an inadvertent test this morning. Though it no longer glows, the luminous paint is still radioactive.” He tapped the crystal. “This watch has kept perfect time for 40 years. I have no reason to assume that day was any different. We covered eight miles in 67 seconds.”  
  
Napoleon’s mouth dropped. Illya said, “I presume the medical personnel gave men something for pain. That may account for the…altered perception of time.”  
  
“It well might. Except that casualties had been heavy, and the station had depleted its supply of morphia.” His eyes twinkled at their expressions of sympathetic agony. “Oh, I always kept a flask of good brandy on me. It was enough to alleviate a bit of my discomfort, but not impair my faculties.”  
  
“Sir, eight miles in a minute is just not possible,” Napoleon said. “It takes a turbojet to reach that kind of speed.”  
  
“As you say, Mr. Solo. And such technology was a mere dream at that time. So I kept the information to myself, lest I receive a visit from the division psychiatrist.” Waverly pointed his pipe at the screen. “Yet, a few days later, I awoke to find this man at my bedside. Somehow he knew I had timed him, and he was curious about the result. When I told him, he was disappointed. Said he should have done it in under a minute.”  
  
Waverly set his pipe next to the watch. “Noel Perry. That’s the name he used in the Red Cross. Perry said he needed a friend, one he could trust, and that he sensed in me a kindred spirit. It is no exaggeration when I tell you that, were it not for that encounter and the friendship it forged, I would not be sitting in this chair today.”  
  
Each agent slanted his gaze at the other, their eyes not quite meeting. “Friendship can be a very powerful thing,” Napoleon said.  
  
“Even a sacred honor.”  
  
“Precisely, Mr. Kuryakin. Last night, I received word that Perry was in mortal danger. This organization is going to save him.” He raised a forestalling hand. “Oh, this is no personal favor. You are going up against Thrush and their Operation Tannenbaum.”  
  
“Tannenbaum?” Napoleon said. “I thought that was the plan to disrupt the Christmas shopping season. We’ve got agents stationed in most major retailers.”  
  
“I’ve already recalled them. All that chatter about undermining the world economy was meant to blind us to their true purpose.”  
  
“Which was?”  
  
Waverly looked at the screen. “To kidnap my friend.”  
  
“What would Thrush want with this Noel Perry?”  
  
Waverly did not answer. Instead he brought a parcel up from the floor, wrapped in brown paper and twine. He removed a small red velvet bag from inside. “This came to me last night by special courier. Perry always told me he’d send it, if necessary, but I never really expected…” His hands hovered over the material. “It seems I’ve gotten a field commission.”  
  
Napoleon removed his hand from his chin and sat up straighter. He looked from the bag to the screen to his Chief in rapid succession. “Ah, sir, you’re not saying that your friend is…I mean, you don’t really expect us to believe that this man is—”  
  
“Santa Claus. Yes, Mr. Solo, I do. I said I needed you both to keep an open mind. However, if it takes more than my word to convince you, perhaps these will help.”  
  
Taking a deep breath, Waverly plunged his arm into the sack.  
  
“Wasn’t that bag smaller before?” Illya said incredulously.  
  
Waverly withdrew his arm. In his hand was a box, bigger than the parcel beside it, wrapped in emerald green paper and topped with a gold bow. Waverly returned his arm to the bag and pulled out a second box, this one in silver and crimson. Clearing the other items onto his lap, he spun the table until the packages rested before the two agents.


	3. Chapter 3

The silver and crimson stopped in front of Napoleon while the emerald and gold stopped in front of his partner.  “These are…presents for us?  From Santa?” Napoleon said in disbelief.   
  
“Not quite, Mr. Solo,” came the reply.  “As I’ve said, I’ve gotten a field commission.”  The two agents watched in astonishment as Mr. Waverly reached into the bag and pulled out a red cap trimmed in white fur with a white ball of fur at the end of its triangular shape.  He popped it on his head and slid his hands down his cheeks, leaving behind a trail of a white beard.  “ _Now,_ you have received presents from Santa.  Open them, please.”   
  
The CEA glanced at Illya.  “What was that you were saying about ‘altered perception’?  I feel like I’m in an episode of ‘The Twilight Zone.’”  He reached for the box and began to unwrap it as if at any second it might explode.  He pulled out what appeared to be a journal.   He fanned the pages.  All were blank.  “Ah, thanks, it’s what I’ve always wanted?”   
  
“Look at the first page again, Mr. Solo.”   
  
He did and was shocked to see print.  Aloud he read, “I am what you have always needed, Napoleon; the voice of your partner.  You will need me in your search for Santa.  Whenever you have a question, ask me and I will give you the answer he would have if he were with you.”  He turned to gape at his partner.  “’ _If he were with you?’_ What the…?”   
  
Illya’s eyes had gone wide in confusion.  He snatched the top off his gift and peered inside.  He took out what appeared to be a red and green felt hat.  “I do not know what to make of this,” he finally admitted as he turned it this way and that.   
  
Napoleon’s lips quirked up into a slight smile.  “It looks like an elf’s hat.”   
  
“An astute observation, Mr. Solo, as that is exactly what it is.  Put it on, Mr. Kuryakin.”   
  
For the first time in his life, the Russian seriously considered disobeying a direct order from his superior.  Resolutely ignoring the giggles coming from his right, he donned the cap and schooled his face into an unreadable mask.   
  
“You have also received a field commission, Mr. Kuryakin.  You are officially Santa’s Helper.”   
  
The giggles he had been ignoring now turned into guffaws that he could not.  “Napoleon, if you do not stop laughing…” he snarled as he glared daggers at the man.  A few seconds of that quieted his partner and he turned his attention back to Mr. Waverly to plead his case.  “Sir, I am a Communist, I am an atheist!  I cannot be Santa’s Helper!”   
  
“And I am Number One, Section One of UNCLE North America, but tonight I am Santa Claus!  And you, Mr. Kuryakin, are Santa’s Number One Elf!”  The Old Man stood and reached into the sack and pulled out Santa’s red and white jacket and when he put it one and fastened the black belt, both men noticed how much longer and whiter his beard had become and how big his belly had grown.  
  
“Stand up, Mr. Kuryakin.”  
  
Illya slowly rose from his chair and at Napoleon’s gasp, he looked down to see that his black suit, tie and white shirt had transformed into a green tunic and tights.  His black wingtip shoes were now red shoes that ended in an up tilted point and matched the collar of his tunic.  “How am I supposed to walk the halls in this?!?  I will be the laughingstock of UNCLE!”   
  
In the blink of an eye, the three men were standing on the roof and though it was a sub – freezing New York City night, they weren’t cold.  However, Napoleon and Illya barely noticed as their attention was on the eight reindeer harnessed to a rather large red and gold sleigh.  On the back of it, was a huge red bag out of which poked gaily wrapped presents.   
  
“Get on board, Mr. Kuryakin!  You’re with me tonight.  And you too, Mr. Solo; we’ll drop you off near where the Central Committee is keeping my friend.”   
  
“You, you know _where the Central Committee is?_ How?  And why don’t we send our Strike Teams to quash them once and for all?”   
  
“I’m Santa Claus now,” Mr. Waverly answered with a twinkle in his eye.  “I know when they’re sleeping, I know when they’re awake, but as Santa Claus I cannot order death and destruction.  You must rescue Noel Perry, but you must not use violence.”   
  
“But Sir, if I can’t use violence and I don’t have Illya with me, how am I supposed to get this done?”    
  
Santa Waverly sighed.  “Very well, then.”  He reached into the sack and handed Napoleon an unwrapped box.  “Keep that in your suit pocket.  Whenever you need something to assist you, open the box and it will be there, regardless of size.  Now let’s go, Gentlemen.  There is much to do before the sun rises.”  As soon as the men settled in, Santa shook the reins and the reindeer took off into the night sky.   
  
“Hey,” Napoleon said, “Where’s Rudolf?”   
  
“Is it not obvious, Napoleon,” Illya answered, “It’s a clear night.  His nose is not needed!”   
  
“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa Waverly said as they flew over the New York skyline.


	4. Chapter 4

One of the things they hadn’t covered in Survival School, Napoleon thought, was how to dress for a ride in Santa’s sleigh. Though he wore the sort of coat and scarf appropriate for a New York winter, the sleigh bounded into the air – not without a little turbulence as the reindeer jostled into position – and in minutes was so high Napoleon wondered if the air had actually become thinner; what he knew without a doubt was it was bitterly, brain-piercingly cold, with a wind-chill factor of omigod.

Waverly seemed comfortable – not surprising in his thick suit. Oddly, Illya – clad as what might best be described (though not within Illya’s earshot) as an Irish ballet dancer – didn’t seem to notice the cold at all. Then again, maybe the sulk he was currently engaged with – a level 8, if Napoleon was any judge – might be keeping him warm.

The wind precluded any conversation, so it wasn’t until they swooped down and rumbled to a bumpy stop on a big , flat, industrial-building roof that Waverly spoke.

“I know the reason THRUSH took Noel -  as the first step in their nefarious plan.”

“Which plan is that?” Illya grumbled from the depths of his sulk.

“The usual,” Waverly replied. “World Domination.”

“Ah.” Napoleon nodded, afraid if he didn’t his neck would freeze. “Well, it’s the time of year for old chestnuts.” He clambered out of the sleigh and shoved his hands into his pockets, fingering his “gift.” It was about the size of their cigarette holder communicators, but lighter.

“They plan to use a duplicate – a false St. Nick – to wreak havoc and mayhem the world over in the days leading to Christmas. I don’t have any specifics, but I do know they aim to make the world hate and fear Santa Claus, and to turn to them for help against him.”

Napoleon felt his brows rise. _Not frozen, then._ “Novel,” he observed, then, when Waverly scowled at him, he added, “But nefarious.” He scanned the vast plane of the rooftop, eying several large ventilation shafts and a small structure that he hoped housed a stair.

“Sir,” Illya said. “It’s not Christmas for days. Why do you – and, more pointedly, I – need to be in these ridiculous costumes being dragged about by this herd of overaged venison?”

“We, too, have a job to do tonight, my jolly elf,” Waverly said – the steely gleam in his eye was a poor substitute, Napoleon thought, for Santa’s legendary twinkle.

He rubbed his hands together. “Well, good luck, you two. I’m going inside, where it’s probably going to be a lot hotter than I like.”

“Save Noel,” Waverly adjured as he picked up the heavy leather reins. “Stop the false St. Nick.”

“Without hurting anyone,” Napoleon said, nodding. “I remember. Ho ho ho.” Actually Waverly had said without violence, but that was far too broad a ban for Napoleon to take seriously. His boss didn’t correct him.

“Good luck,” Illya called to him, still sunk into his elvish snit.

Napoleon waved. “Don’t take any wooden milk and cookies!”  And he trotted toward the building he hoped contained stairs. Behind him the heavy harness bells jangled, reindeer snorted, hooves thudded – and the sleigh was aloft again, passing over Napoleon’s head eastward. He looked at it for a moment, marveling, then hurried to the building.

~ * ~ * ~

The building did open onto stairs, and those stairs led him into a factory of some sort, huge and open and harshly lit, with machinery in the middle and offices lining the walls on the ground floor. Napoleon paused in the shadows by the door, casing the joint and wondering what role a manufacturing plant might play in THRUSH’s alleged scheme to ruin Christmas and blackball Santa. Mass manufacture of coal?

Napoleon shook his head sharply. Weird as this seemed, it was a mission, one with personal value to the old man. He needed to take it seriously. If possible.

He checked that the little gift box was still secure in his pocket and moved smoothly along the catwalk to the nearest stairs. Machinery hummed in the distance but he didn’t see any THRUSHies at work.

Downstairs he ducked into a likely looking corridor and found himself confronted with rooms on either side, doors closed but each with a viewing window for observers.

Knowing the kinds of things THRUSH like to “observe,” Napoleon steeled himself and moved forward, ever alert for discovery.

The first room was an empty white cube. The second contained a table with a box on it. The box looked as if it had exploded – as if it had contained a bomb. Past the burnt and curling edges Napoleon glimpsed the remains of a festive Christmas wrapping paper.

The next room was strung with Christmas lights – several strings hung parallel across the ceiling. They seemed to go on and off in order as he watched, one, two, three, four, one, two three, four—

HE flinched at the sharp sound of sparks and watched as the first string of lights exploded in sequence, like a series of firecrackers, spitting glass and smoke and flame. The second string followed after, then the third…

But by then Napoleon had gotten the point and moved on.  The next room contained a fully decorated Christmas tree, six feet tall and bristling with ornaments. As he watched, the entire tree exploded into flame and smoke – so much he flinched back from the glass, though it seemed apparent these rooms had been designed to contain these experiments.

Clearly THRUSH were testing some Christmas-themed devices of mayhem. No doubt to be used to fill the sack of their sinister Santa.

Napoleon shook his head. _You’re alliterating. Stop it_. But there was something particularly creepy about these festive time bombs. As he continued he pondered how he might put this entire nasty wing of the building out of commissions – but Noel Perry came first.

A few more glances as he proceeded showed him further items of holiday horror, but still not a single live person. He reached a T-junction and arbitrarily chose right.

_Amazing what you can do with a candy cane_ were his last thoughts before a sharp smell of pine and a heavy club to the skull simultaneously overwhelmed him. Pain kicked him in the back of the head and he sank quickly into blackness.  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Silently, high above the Earth, Santa’s sleigh flew, completely invisible to those who did not need to see. Glancing below, Illya saw the bright lights of New York City fade into smaller clusters of lights of the sprawling suburbs of the Big Apple, and then further away, gently turning into rural areas where only the pristine landscapes of rolling hills covered with slow—the occasional cheerfully decorated farmhouse as a beacon of hopes and joy.  
  
After a few moments of idly watching the landscape below, Illya gave a start as he suddenly realized he could see everything below as clearly as if he were just above instead of the hundreds of feet he had to be. And, even though it was dark enough that the sky was alive with masses of twinkling stars, the landscape was as bright as if it were daylight.  
  
Just as this astonishing observation came to him, Santa Waverly broke in on his thoughts.  
  
“It’s lovely, is it not?”  
  
“Ah, yes.” The brief moment of contentment was dimmed briefly. “Uh, Sir, you _do_ realize that I shouldn’t be able to see all of this. Not at this height and certainly not at this speed and time of night.”  
  
For just a moment, the bushy brows of Alexander Waverly twitched before morphing back into the snowy brows of Santa Waverly. His eyes twinkled merrily. “Ho, ho, ho! Of course you can!”  
  
For a long moment, the Russian scowled at the treacherously illogical and impossible scenery below. Staring closely at the scene, he felt a sudden longing to see move of the farm below until, to his complete astonishment, it was as if he were looking through the most powerful binoculars in the world. In that moment, he could see the lights on the old barn surrounding a crèche, and even the animals moving around in the barn which had a large opening out to the barnyard on one side. Astonished, he stared, giving a slow shake of his head, his lips twitching a moment before blossoming into a delighted grin. His eyes sparkled as he glanced back as his boss who gave a satisfied nod of agreement.  
  
As the sleigh flew silently (except for the gentle jingle of sleigh bells) in the star-filled night sky, the moon began to rise higher in the sky, setting a picture-perfect backdrop for the snow-covered landscape below.  
  
Reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the idyllic scene below, Illya ran a practiced eye over the sleigh. This mode of transport wasn’t at all familiar to him, but as an experienced agent, he mentally reviewed the strengths and weaknesses in order to prepare for the likely attack of Thrush in their nefarious scheme to twist Christmas into something obscene and despised instead of a time for joy and peace.  
  
“Sir, I fear I am at a loss here. I don’t know where, um, Santa’s Number One Elf’s responsibilities lie.”  
  
“You’ll know when the time comes!”  
  
Illya opened his mouth to protest when he suddenly remembered the already odd and unusual events of the evening. “Very well, Sir.” With that, he went back to looking at the scenery, but now, he also kept a sharp eye out for mischief or treachery that must surely be in the making.  
  
“Ho, Dancer, Hyah Prancer, Cupid, Vixen. Steady now, Dasher. Donner, Comet. Easy now Blitzen.”  
  
The sleigh began to descend in slow, lazy circles. Illya glanced back at Santa Waverly, puzzled.  
  
“Be ready, Mr. Kuryakin. We are nearing our destination.”  
  
Illya looked at the barren landscape below. Aside from the stately evergreens with their attractive dusting of snow on their branches, there was nothing except unmarked, pristine snow. Nothing screamed out ‘Thrush’ or ‘Evil Genius at Work,’ but something about the scene suddenly felt ominous.  
  
_Something is very wrong here._  
  
Automatically, he started to reach for his Special, just to touch it for reassurance, when his fingers felt nothing but air (and the ridiculous costume he was wearing).  
  
_The sanction against violence! I doubt that Thrush will take something along those lines into consideration. After all, the whole premise of their Operation Tannenbaum is to completely ruin Christmas. So, how am I supposed to protect…Santa Waverly…without any kind of weapon?_  
  
Illya shivered.


	6. Chapter 6

  
“But, baby, it’s cold outside,” Napoleon murmured.

The buxom redhead dressed in angel wings and little else dissolved like melting snow. In her place, burly sugarplums wearing steel-toed work boots began to dance on his head.

Suppressing a groan, Napoleon dragged open his heavy lids. He was sprawled against the wall of a sparsely-furnished room, his left wrist handcuffed to a pipe descending from a small sink. The familiar weight of his Special was missing. He shifted his right arm to check for St. Waverly’s gifts but his stomach protested. Disinclined to toss his Christmas cookies, he turned his head slowly and observed the room’s other occupant.  
  
The man sat cross-legged on a cot, his head resting against the wall. His fur cap fell over his eyes to block out the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights. A matching fur vest covered his brightly patterned tunic. Tall suede boots were laced up to his knees, where his hands lay, palms upward.

“Ah, hello,” Napoleon croaked.

“I can’t get a good read on you, man.” The voice that emanated from the full, white beard was as smooth and mellifluous as hot, buttered rum. “You seem nice now. A minute ago your vibrations were definitely naughty.”

“Well, we can’t help our dreams.”

The man nodded as if Napoleon had uttered something profound. He pushed back the fur cap. His piercing blue eyes bored into the agent, then twinkled ruefully. “I sure miss my mojo. The name’s Yul.”

“Napoleon Solo. And you look to me like a man called Noel Perry.”

The beads around Yul’s neck clattered as he shifted. Napoleon could sense a great energy stirring beneath the languid pose. “Only one person still calls me that.”

“Alexander Waverly. He sent me to rescue you.”

Yul slapped a hand against one knee. “Right on. Star made it through to him.”

“Is that one of your elves?”

“No, man, Star’s not an elf. She’s my wife.”

“Mrs. Claus?”

“Ho, ho. Don’t let her hear you say that. She prefers to go by ‘Yul’s Old Lady.’” He made air quotes with his hands. “The irony appeals to her.”

“Why is that ironic?”

“Cuz she’s only twenty-five.”

Napoleon’s surprise showed in his face. Yul said, “Now, you’re not going to be a drag about that like ol’ Alexander, are you? I’ve already got everyone on the planet beat by a thousand years. What’s a few more decades?”

“I agree. Age is just a state of mind, ah, Daddy-o.”

Yul laughed, the sound like pealing church bells. “I dig you, man. We’re muy simpatico. I can see why Alexander trusts you.”

“Thanks. I like you too, though you’re not exactly what I expected.”

He shrugged. “I reinvent myself every few decades. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you gotta keep things interesting.”

A thousand questions flooded Napoleon’s mind. Perhaps someday he could sit before a crackling fire to enjoy a glass of eggnog and listen to this man’s stories. But today was not that day.

Napoleon worked himself upright. “Waverly said this place would be crawling with Thrushies, but I only ran into one.” He gingerly felt the lump on the back of his head. “Or he ran into me.”

Yul smiled. “Those covetous old sinners? When they suddenly felt goodwill toward their fellow men, they freaked. Most of them beat it out of here so fast, you’d think the place was radioactive.”

“Why haven’t you…you know?” Napoleon lay his finger aside of his nose.

Yul shook his head. “Are people still reading that poem? Crazy. I thought it was pretty far out the night Clement wrote it, but anything is after that much wassail.”

“What about your powers?”

“My mojo? I slipped most of it to Alexander in that package. I used the rest to get those Committee squares to mellow out.” He tipped his head back against the wall. “Now I’m just trying to maintain.”

“Speaking of your mojo.” Napoleon patted his pockets. The Special and his communicator were gone, but Waverly’s gifts remained. He pulled out the journal. “Let’s see what Santa’s Number One Elf has to say.”

Napoleon spoke into the end of the book as if it were a transceiver. “How do we get out of here?”

He flipped open the journal. Words appeared on the page. ‘Why don’t you see if there’s a handcuff key in the gift box? Or would you like to ask Santa for a pony first?’

Napoleon screwed up his face. “Thanks, Mr. Grinch.”

The little box rattled as he pulled it from his pocket. Under the lid lay a silver key.

Released from his fetter, Napoleon stood up and massaged his wrist. “And now for my next trick.” He examined the door. “I wonder if that moratorium on violence includes interior appointments.”

“What’s going on in there?” a harsh voice demanded. The doorknob rattled as someone worked the lock from the other side.  
  


 


	7. Conclusion

As the sleigh and reindeer touched down onto the unblemished snow, Illya's sense of foreboding intensified. He was prepared to jump out of the magical transporter and perform a military style reconnaissance of the surrounding area. His zeal for Santa Waverly's safety was tempered suddenly as he looked down at the red, curly toed shoes he wore.

Santa Waverly sensed the hesitation and gently instructed his Number One Elf to follow his instincts, ignoring what appeared to be and forging onward in spite of it.

"You are in a far different realm from the one from which you began, Illya.' The familiar use of his first name made the Russian elf hesitate, it was not usual for Waverly. But then, none of this was usual.

"When you step onto the snow you will have everything you need". Illya accepted Santa Waverly's reassurance as fact, jumping out of the sleigh and onto the powdery carpet of freshly fallen snow. As he landed, his elf's costume was changed instantly into something he would later describe as Christmas camouflage; it made no sense to him, but would suffice for the sake of telling the tale.

Illya was now clad in green and red, as before, but the fabric was a military looking camouflage pattern. And thankfully, instead of the insipid slippers, he was wearing heavy boots suitable for trekking about in snow. He still looked like something out of Sears and Roebuck Christmas Catalogue, but now there was at least a GI Joe attitude included.

"Sir, I believe there is something located within that stand of trees, over there." Illya pointed due south of the sleigh, towards a forested area that seemed sinister in its composition. It was as though it were placed in its location, rather than a product of nature.

"I see it, and I concur. Within that forest you will no doubt find the danger we seek to circumvent." Santa Waverly would not accompany his elf/agent. As Illya headed off into the forest beyond, a sphere enveloped the sleigh and reindeer, making them and Santa invisible to any who might look in their direction.

  
Napoleon and Noel Perry both looked at the door, the voice on the other side now demanding to be let in.

“Who’s keeping him out?” Napoleon was puzzled, but he noted a wry grin on the face of his cellmate as his question hit the air.

“I think my mojo has found its way home... groovy.” Yul stood up, the restraint falling away as he shot his arms into the air and stretched to his full height. He was taller than he had appeared before, his hair was whiter and the eyes a dazzling shade of blue that seemed to, quite literally, twinkle. Napoleon shook his head, his ability to fully believe still slightly hampered by a failng grasp at reality.

Yul, or Noel as Waverly had identified him, looked at the American and winked. Extending his hand towards the cell door, Napoleon watched as it opened and revealed a rumpled looking man pointing at him with what appeared to be a water pistol.

“Hello Morty.” Noel Perry was in full form now, unmistakably larger than life as the flummoxed guard looked from one prisoner to the other.

“Santa?” That was all he said before fainting into a heap.

“He’s bummed about being on the Naughty List.’ Noel/Yul snapped his fingers and fired a grin at Napoleon.

“Say, we need to blow this joint. Alexander and his Elf are in danger. Open that book and see what’s happenin’ in the Enchanted Forest.”

“The what?” Napoleon was used to unusual events, numb to what other people considered extraordinary. Then again, he’d never met Santa Claus or taken a midnight ride in a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer. For a brief moment he wondered if this were all the result of a THRUSH drug, if waking up in Medical was the end of this dream.

“The Enchanted Forest. It’s where Illya is right now, and he needs our help. My mojo’s good, we’re free to go. So...”

In less than the twinkling of an eye the two men were back on the roof of the building atop reindeer; one for each of them. Napoleon was about to explain he was not an experienced rider when the beast leapt off of the roof, causing him to clutch at the reins as he hunched down against the sudden rush of air. Noel Perry shouted out a greeting to no one in particular, a renewed sense of joy seemingly erupting from within.

  
As Santa Waverly sat within the orb that surrounded the sleigh, invisible to anyone who might be scanning the landscape for intruders, Illya made his way into the forest. The trees had no aroma, and upon close inspection he noted that they were made of something resembling pine needles but lacking the true luster and texture.

“The trees are fake, like the ones in store windows.’ The observation was made aloud, and immediately triggered a response from two robots disguised as nutcrackers.

“What the...?” Illya was unarmed, his only recourse to defend himself from the bizarre looking robots was his innate athletic abilities and (fortunate for him), gymnastics training. In spite of the trees being artificial, they were firmly rooted into the floor of the forest, allowing Illya to swing from branches and elude the earthbound mechanical nutcrackers. Once above the scene, he was able to locate what appeared to be a control booth. Continuing to leap from limb to limb, he moved close enough to lower himself onto the roof of the small cubicle.

  
Napoleon and Noel Perry let the reindeer follow their intuitive path until they reached the same clearing where the sleigh, and Santa Waverly, were concealed beneath the orb. Noel recognized it in spite of the invisibility, the connection to what was his acutely in synch.

As the reindeer set down softly into the snow, he walked toward the orb, Napoleon right behind but unaware of what lay ahead of him.

“Yo, Alexander!” The shout seemed to resonate into the landscape, causing the cloak of invisibility to slip away, revealing the sleigh and its occupant. The reindeer pawed at the snow, uttering a welcome to their master in a language known only to him.

“Back atcha dudes,’ the casualness of his greeting belied the great affection he had for each one of them.

“I’ve missed you too.”

Napoleon made a quick check to be certain that Mr. Waverly was alright. And indeed, he was now simply Waverly, the Santa affect gone in the wake of Noel Perry’s arrival. The ebullient Santa seemed larger than life, and as he went to Waverly’s side it was almost inconceivable that the two had ever worked as contemporaries. The ancient and the mortal... and yet here they were.

“Thank you Alexander, you and your men have saved the day, literally.” In the quiet exchange between the two friends, there was none of the hippie persona that had marked the earlier conversation between him and Napoleon. Now it was about friendship and devotion, the realization of which reminded Napoleon that his friend and partner was not present.

“Umm, where is Illya?” The question hung in the air as Noel Perry surveyed the landscape, settling his attention on the forest beyond. Waverly nodded in the affirmative.

“He’s in there? Shouldn’t we join him?” Napoleon was ready to do just that until Noel shook his head.

“No need for that Napoleon. Your friend is quite capable of handling the situation.’’ It sounded reassuring, but he was accustomed to forging ahead when Illya was in danger.

“Are you certain of that?”

  
As Illya sat atop the roof to the small shed, he figured there was only one option for him. The nutcrackers would probably return here, and whoever was controlling them and possibly the entire Operation Tannenbaum, was beneath him and hopefully unaware of his presence. As he was contemplating all of this, the place where he sat suddenly opened up, plunging him into the very room into which he had hoped to enter with a measure of stealth.

Illya landed in a pile of packages, all of them wrapped in red and green paper; empty boxes destined to disappoint. The abrupt entry into this decorative lair knocked the air out of his lungs, making Illya less a threat and more or less captured.

“Ah, if it isn’t Mr. Kuryakin. I hardly expected you to show up here, and certainly not in that outfit.” The smile on the woman’s face was irritating to the red and green elf agent. Only the combat boots saved him from appearing to be completely out of his mind, or element.

“Madame, you have me at a disadvantage.” She smirked at the breathless reply.

“I always have you at a disadvantage Mr. Kuryakin. Perhaps this time it will be of a permanent nature.” There was something vaguely familiar about the woman, although her costume made it difficult to know for certain. She was dressed all in red, the design very similar to that of a department store Santa.

The difference was in the absence of a beard, owing to her gender of course. And then there was the THRUSH rifle she was holding. Very un-Santa like.

“We have met before then? I apologize, your face is unfamiliar to me.’ Illya thought about that for a second before it hit him.

“Ahh… Dr. Egret, it has been awhile. Forgive me for not recognizing you sooner.” So, the woman desired to hijack Christmas and make it her own.

The infamous Egret had been illusive, evading capture as she donned one false face after another. Illya was certain that she was hoping to not only ruin Christmas, but to capture the holiday and reinvent herself as a female Claus. To what end though?

"Do you seriously believe that the world will allow you to usurp the role of Santa Claus. It seems unattainable, even to a demented THRUSH." He was baiting her, and the flush of anger on her face proved his strategy to be the right one.

"You think I cannot? Have you forgotten how many times I have fooled UNCLE? If I choose to be Santa Claus, and a woman at that, then there's nothing to stop me." She laughed out loud, a constrained 'Ho Ho Ho'; her own sense of dignity a stifling agent to what should be something completely uncontainable.

Illya could see the two nutcracker robots approaching; he needed to do something to avoid being relegated to fodder for their powerful jaws.

"Yes, I see that now." His obvious disdain enraged the doctor. She raised the rifle and pointed it at Illya who dove into the disheveled packages and literally surfed on top of them until he reached Egret and toppled her completely, the THRUSH weapon's aim now directed towards the building's solitary window. The rifle discharged, hitting one of the approaching nutcrackers. The impact threw it backwards into its twin, causing both of them to become disabled. With that accomplished, Illya used ribbon intended for the empty packages to tie Egret to the only chair in the room. Once he was satisfied that she was securely bound, he opened the door and wheeled her through the artificial forest and out into the snow covered clearing.

Napoleon, who had been watching intently for any sign of his partner, hailed him now as he saw Illya emerge with what looked like another Santa riding on an office chair. He shook his head, but the image remained.

Noel Perry, his arsenal of magic fully restored, raised his hand towards the faux forest and watched as it disappeared from sight. Alexander sighed with satisfaction as Napoleon, not disbelieving but conflicted by his sense of reason nonetheless, looked on with relief as Illya approached. No longer wearing the elf's costume, Illya strode towards the sleigh and the other three men in his customary black, augmented only by the boots he had worn into the forest.

Doctor Egret was red-faced, in what was assumed was her real face. When she looked back from where they had emerged, her entire operation had disappeared. Kidnapping this person, this… this Santa, had not convinced her that he was in reality a mystical being. She had only been convinced that he held the key to the lore and profitability of Christmas. Now, looking at this scene and not seeing the forest she had created, Egret was no longer sure of her scheme; that she would not be long in Waverly's care however, of that she was very sure.

  
Alexander Waverly knew the risk involved with Egret, and Noel Perry read his mind, sharing his friend's concern. Without a word, he instructed the big red bag to gather to itself the woman tied to the chair, which the bag was only too happy to oblige. Before she could voice her objection, Doctor Egret was deep inside the bag in a world she would later deny having seen. But, that is another story.

The four men took their seats in the sleigh as the command was given to take flight. The reindeer launched into the night sky, and within a few minutes the lights of New York City were beneath them, the roof of Headquarters in sight. As they touched down, the men from UNCLE were immediately seated at their respective places around Waverly's round table. Noel Perry had work to do, elves to oversee and Christmas just a few days away. He would check in with Alexander later.

As the Chief of UNCLE Northwest lit his pipe, the pungent aroma of Isle of Dogs Number 22 working its way around the table, he was visibly content.

"I say, that was a rousing escapade. And you gentlemen, all in one piece it seems." Waverly seemed younger somehow, his face no longer drawn with worry over the world's state of affairs.

"Yes sir, we seem to be, as you said, all in one piece." Napoleon was still slightly dazed by the night's adventure. Santa Claus… He thought it entirely possible that he might wake up at any moment and find it had all been a dream… or a drug of some sort…

Illya was less inclined to have any doubts. As he sat there, contemplating the evening's events, a voice came through so clearly he looked around to see if the man were in the room.

"Illya Nicovitch Kuryakin, remember for whom you are named, your father's name and his before him. S rozhdyestvom Hristovym!" Illya turned back towards the table, the greeting in Russian a reminder of his youth. What did he mean, remember…?"

Napoleon watched as his partner seemed to lean in, as though to listen to something, or someone. Looking more closely, he noticed, perhaps not for the first time, the shape of Illya's ear. It made him laugh, not surprising considering where they had been tonight.

"What are you laughing at Napoleon?" Illya shook off the voice and his memories.

"I just noticed, I mean… your ears. They do sort of look like…"

"Like what?" The look was threatening. Mr. Waverly smiled, knowing exactly what his CEA referred to.

"Ahh, Mr. Kuryakin, just embrace it. We have saved Christmas, and therefore the world, once again." That made Illya sit back, his annoyance slightly abated.

"Yes sir, indeed we have."

"Amen to that."

The events of that night were not recorded in a report, nor were they spoken of except between the two friends whose view of things seemed to be always subject to change.

The friendship, however, would remain unalterably intact for at least as long as people still believed in Santa Claus.

 

 


End file.
